Tommo & Hawk by Bryce Courtenay Read Free Book Online Page A

Mordechai O'Hara, a fearsome pious man.

    The Nankin Maiden's an old ship, a barque, but a good un, one hundred and fifty feet from stem to stern with a beam of thirty foot, three hundred tons and well known these thirty years in the Antarctic, Southern Ocean and Pacific waters. She is after sperm whale and we was quickly told that the Yankee sperm whalers are the toughest there be on the seven seas. From the looks of it, there ain't many Yankees aboard 'cept for the three mates, the ship's carpenter, the cook, blacksmith, cooper, sail maker and, o' course, the master himself. That's only nine out of forty-two men. The rest is all volunteers, like Hawk and meself, rough men of every colour and shape from sea ports in the Indies and the Caribbean, Cape o' Good Hope and the islands of the Pacific Ocean. There is also a few Limeys, Irish and Dutchies, mostly picked up in Rio.

    Though Hawk were brung up better than me, here he's treated as a nigger. There is four others, but they be true niggers, two from the Indies and two from the Cape. Hawk's bigger than all on board, except for one of the Maori and I am glad to have him about.

    There be another black what's not counted a nigger, an Aborigine from the Stoney Creek tribe, name o' Billy Lanney. Hawk says he must be one of the few Tasmanian natives what's not been shot as vermin or what died when they was took to be settled on Bruny Island. Lanney keeps to himself, though he is friendly enough when you talks to him.

    Lanney is a small man, no bigger than meself, though his head seems larger than suits the body what carries it. Under his canvas breeches, what is rolled up for deck scrubbing and the like, he has sparrow legs, thin pin-like sticks. He's built narrow o' chest too, but he seems amazing strong for such a little fellow. He wears a beard of tiny curls, close to his face, and his hair is a thousand or more tight, springy curls clung to his head, though quite different looking to Hawk's. He has deep-set eyes and most pleasing white teeth when he smiles.

    This bloody ship is owned by a Rhode Island syndicate, all of 'em Quakers what have vowed it a 'dry cask afloat', meaning that grog ain't permitted on board while she's at sea. The past three months and sixteen days have been the worst of me life. Not a drop of grog has passed my lips. Any breach of this rule is punished most cruel, as we witnessed a week out to sea with Billy Lanney the victim.

    Lanney, a regular crew member much experienced in the whaling game, come back on board ship in Hobart Town and brung with him a quart bottle of Cape brandy. He knew he would be punished if it were found, but he didn't care. Sure enough it were found, by the first mate, Mr Crawlin Nestbyte. We were just three nights out to sea when he found Billy Lanney drunk as a lord, dancing a merry jig in the fo'c'sle and singing a bawdy ditty.

    To my mind, the real tragedy of the whole affair is that only a quarter of the bottle were consumed before the first mate found out. The sentence would not have been a single stroke more had Billy drunk the lot, as I'd surely have done! In the presence of the lot of us, the rest of the precious brandy were poured overboard by the first mate, while me tongue stuck to the roof of me miserable mouth.

    Nestbyte, like the master, is a Quaker and told us that the Lord in Heaven did not propose to show any mercy to the feckless black; nor should we expect any from the highest authority on earth. This authority turns out to be Captain O'Hara himself who, it seems, knows all about the will of God.

    Five days later, at ten o'clock on Sunday morning, we be called on deck to hear Billy's sentence. The captain, in best black cloth suit and white lace bibby, stands on the fo'c'sle to address us. Billy Lanney is made to stand before him, his hands clasped to his front and his head bowed as though in prayer. Nestbyte stands beside him with one hand on Lanney's shoulder and the empty brandy bottle in his other